"You look a bit off colour to-day, somehow," said Steele, tying up some deeds which he was taking to the lawyers.
"I didn't sleep much last night. I expect I want my holiday."
"Like the rest of us. Two weeks in the year are no good to any one. Well, so long! Prepare for a disappointment when you see the paper."
"I am quite ready," answered Barton.
His fellow clerk laughed, and picking up his parcel of deeds, passed out of the office. As the swing-door closed behind him, Barton suddenly realized that they might never meet again. Steele had been one of his few friends—a pleasant good-natured fellow, who had always treated him with a faint touch of deference; an unconscious tribute that some young men are always ready to pay to a stronger or keener intelligence than their own. Steele would be sorry if things went wrong. He was, perhaps, the only one who would think of him in future with anything but contempt.
Three o'clock! Another twenty minutes. They were in the paddock now. Relf would be examining his saddle. He could picture the scene; the crush round the favourite. No doubt "Mountain Lady"——
Some customers came in, and he got up to attend to them mechanically, adding up the amounts, or paying out what was required, without the least hesitation or inaccuracy. He was scarcely conscious of what he was doing; it was like a strange dream. He felt as if he was looking on at the tragedy of his own life. How long had it been? Twenty-two hours! He laughed to himself. What fool invented the clock? Last night alone had been a lifetime. There had been no time to-day. It had drifted past in a dull trance. After hours of torture he had waked to a state of mental exhaustion, in which thought at last was numbed and powerless.
Five minutes more! A tradesman was talking to him about the weather, as he examined the endorsements on the cheques, and counted silver and gold into little separate piles. "Yes, it was beautiful: a regular summer day. It made one want to be outside, instead of being stuffed up in an office. However, business was business, of course." A quarter past. God—how the moments dragged! They were lining up, perhaps. They might even have started. In a quarter of an hour he might be dead. How those chattering fools would start if they knew!
There was a sudden lull in the work. Four or five customers went out almost together, and for a little while the office was empty. A strange apathy settled down like a mist over Barton's mind. It was all over now. The paper would be out in a few minutes.
He went on writing, slowly, correctly. He felt as though he were being stifled. Suddenly, in the distance, he heard the shrill cry of a paper boy: "Winner, paiper; Cup winner!" Something seemed to snap in his brain. A deadly calm succeeded the formless emotions that had been racking him. He laid down his pen, and getting up from his seat, walked to the cashier's desk.